


The Adventure Of The Montpensiers (1889)

by Cerdic519



Series: Elementary 221B [106]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Chemistry, Destiel - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Murder, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-06-03
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:06:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: A friend in need is a friend indeed – but sometimes, friends can be less than helpful, as one character in this story finds out the hard way.





	The Adventure Of The Montpensiers (1889)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ginger_angel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ginger_angel/gifts).



It was with a particular gruesomeness that this case first came to our attention on All Fools’ Day, because what seemed to have been meant merely as a practical joke or two turned out to have a rather more deadly intent. And a person who set out with the best of intentions to help someone ended up achieving quite the reverse.

Sherlock had just finished a small but tiring case where his advice on solving a crime had been ignored, with the result that the criminal had actually managed to get on a boat for the United States. Fortunately they had been intercepted in Ireland – coincidentally at Queenstown, the scene of our sole Irish case with Mr. Charles Peace - but the affair (and, predictably, both the subsequent government cover-up and the ingratitude of a certain lounge-lizard brother) had left him demoralized, and the previous night he had just wanted us to cu.... hold each other in a manly-like manner. As I had precisely zero chance of refusing him anything, we had done just that, and he looked all the better for it this morning. Especially after I had fetched him his first coffee in bed, for which he had thanked me profusely.

“We shall be receiving a guest soon”, he yawned as he stumbled to the table, where I quickly forked half my bacon onto his plate. I do not know why Mrs. Harvelle did not just give him a bigger pile anyway, though I suspected that he rather liked the idea of me giving up food for him. He must have known that I would have given up so much more.

“Do they have a case for you?” I asked hopefully.

“I have no idea”, he said, munching at what had to be close on half a pig. “All I can tell you is that our visitor will be female, about twenty to twenty-five years of age, have red hair and will probably be wearing a red….” - he concentrated for a moment – “no, make that a burgundy dress.”

I stared at him in surprise, as he was hardly attired to receive company. He had his dressing-gown on over his pyjamas, and his hair, as usual, was a complete disaster area. 

“When is this lady coming?” I asked, hoping he would get dressed beforehand. The one time before when he had absent-mindedly received a client in such attire, she had leered at him in a way most unbecoming a duchess. A married duchess. _In her seventies, damnation_!

“Oh”, he said. “Yes. I suppose that I had better change.”

I spluttered into my coffee as he walked back into my room, stripping off his dressing-gown and top as he walked. Honestly!

+~+~+

A mercifully long twelve minutes later, Mrs. Harvelle showed up our visitor. She was exactly as Sherlock had described, and, I supposed, quite attractive.

“My name is Miss Emma Owen”, the lady said, and I detected a faint Welsh accent as she spoke. “I come from Whitland in the county of Carmarthenshire, but for the past six years have found a home with a family friend in Maida Vale, not far from here. Her name is Mrs. Mabel Montpensier, and despite her name, she too has Welsh origins.”

“And pray what brings you to our house today?” Sherlock asked politely.

The lady reddened.

“It is all rather _macabre_ ”, she said awkwardly. “Indeed, I suppose that I may have over-reacted a little to the occurrences of this morning. But..... gentlemen, I feel that there is more to recent events than it seems, and since our local constable would most certainly dismiss my concerns, I hoped that you might look into matters for me.”

“What events?” Sherlock asked patiently. The lady was, it seemed, inclined to witter.

“Someone has been playing jokes on Mabel!”

I bit back a caustic remark. First a careless maid (and all right, that had turned out to be something rather more serious) and now a practical joker. We were getting a strange set of clients lately, although I supposed that was better than murderesses, corrupt soldiers and ghosts from the past.

“I take it that these jokes have a sinister air to them?” Sherlock asked, “otherwise they would not concern you so much?”

The lady took a deep breath.

“I had better start at the beginning”, she said. “My mother died seven years ago, and for the year after that I lived with my father, who was a miner. At that time he was killed in a mining disaster, and my prospects looked bleak, as we did not even own our own home. However, my late mother had apparently planned for just such an emergency. Mabel was an old school friend of my mother’s who had married a London merchant and moved here over a decade ago. He has done exceptionally well for himself, so she thought nothing of my mother’s request to take me on. I was sixteen at the time and utterly alone in the world, so I owe my dear friend everything.”

“Mr. Montpensier is French?” I asked.

“Jack is actually Scottish”, she said, “but has he Huguenot ancestors, about whom he goes on at great length!”

I smiled at that.

“Apart from the servants, does anyone else live at the house?” Sherlock asked.

“Not exactly”, she said. Seeing our confused looks, she continued. "Mr. Montpensier's brother William spends much of his time there, although he has a small place of his own somewhere in town. He once tried to pay court to me, but he is nearly forty years of age, and quite unpleasant. And he is one of those Men who are far too full of themselves.”

I tried not to think that I was less than three years short of that same milestone, though it did not help when Sherlock shot me a knowing look. Mind-reading as usual!

“Mr. William Montpensier is, then the older brother?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, she said. “Jack is full eight years younger than him. I understand that their mother had many children, but that only four survived and they are two of them. The other brother emigrated, to the United States I think, and the sister married someone down in Kent.”

“How old are you yourself, may I ask?” Sherlock asked.

“Twenty-two”, our guest said. My friend hesitated.

“Miss Owen”, he said carefully, “I must ask you several questions about the incidents concerning your friend. Some may seem irrelevant, some plain impertinent, but if we are to help you, we must have all the facts. Now, when was the first incident that has so concerned you?”

The lady extracted a small diary from her bag. My opinion of her rose slightly; I admire organized people, especially living as I did with a human tornado!

He was looking at me again! I blushed.

“March the eleventh”, she said, mercifully unaware of my embarrassment. “It seemed so trivial at the time. Amongst the letters sent to the house was one covering in some sort of chemical or other. Mabel of course checked the letters – first post always comes after Jack has left for work - and soon after, she found her hand stained bright yellow. The odd thing was was that the letter was supposed to be for next door, number eight. Our postman does not normally make that sort of mistake.”

“Did you keep the letter?” Sherlock asked.

“Mabel did”, our visitor said. “I am studying to be a chemist as it happens, and because of what happened later I subsequently snipped a corner off and took it to my laboratory for testing. The chemical is harmless, and the stain faded before the day was out. It was only in light of what happened next that I decided to come to you.”

Sherlock seemed puzzled over something, but eventually asked what that event was.

“The next thing happened exactly one week later”, she said. “We used to have our morning papers delivered, but the local shop had some boys who were terribly unreliable, and Mabel liked to read her news over a late breakfast most mornings, so she took to collecting them during her morning constitution. Sometimes if Jack rose early, then he would go and collect them before leaving for work, but that was rare. This was one of those days, and he also collected Mabel’s monthly magazine. Someone had placed a giant spider inside it, one of those that spring up when the book or magazine is opened. It was a day when we had William round – one of too many, I might add – and he opened the magazine and got a terrible shock.”

He was reading his sister-in-law's magazine. Rather odd, I thought.

“Does Mrs. Montpensier have a weak heart at all?” Sherlock asked bluntly. Our guest’s eyes widened.

“I see what you mean”, she said, clearly alarmed. “You are suggesting that someone is trying to scare her to death?”

“Possibly”, Sherlock said, “although being scared to death is a highly inefficient way of murdering someone. However, it may be a cover for something more direct. Since these incidents always seem to be happening on a Monday, am I to assume that your friend was targeted again one week ago?”

She nodded.

“Again, it was something that seemed quite inconsequential”, she said. “She was resting in the park by the house when someone fired a gun without warning. It caused quite a stir, but by the time a local policeman had arrived, whoever had done it had fled.”

“That sounds very dangerous”, I offered.

“One of those fake guns with exploding caps, the sort children use, was found in the bushes nearby”, she said. “But I was with her at the time, and I am sure that the gunshot was real. That was what caused me to have the first letter tested.”

“And to today’s incident”, Sherlock said. “It must have been serious indeed to make you come to seek our help.”

She nodded, and extracted a small medicine-bottle from her case.

“I usually rise only a short time before Mabel, but she attended a friend’s party last night, whilst I stayed home with a headache”, she said. “This morning I went downstairs to the breakfast room, and was about to eat when I chanced to look at the glass decanter that contains her favourite Madeira wine. The more I looked, the more I was sure that there was some traces of white powder on the surface.”

“What did you do?” Sherlock asked.

“I checked with the servants”, she said, and was told that Mabel would not be down for at least another half-hour. I knew that to be true; she likes to take a coffee and read in bed for a little time, and I had just seen the maid taking her drink up. Fortunately they keep a spare bottle in the cupboard below the decanter, so I emptied most of the contents away, and kept some which I have brought with me today. Then I took the decanter into the small water closet next door and washed it thoroughly, before refilling it.”

“You acted most sensibly”, Sherlock praised. “I presume that you are on your way to your laboratory in order to test it?”

“I am”, she said, “though I very much fear I know what sort of results I will find.”

I had the same feeling.

+~+~+

I would not normally have described Sherlock as a man of action, but as soon as Miss Owen was gone, he started getting his coat. 

“This case is serious?” I asked, following suit.

“Deadly”, he said. “I fear that someone's life may be in some danger, although hopefully since the strikes seem thus far to have been one week apart, we may hope for a period of grace before the next attack. Except….”

“Except what?” I asked, worried.

“The criminal will have fully expected their plan this morning to have succeeded, and their target to be lying dead at the breakfast table”, he said. “When they find out that they are not, they may fear that someone – quite possibly Miss Owen – knows of their design.”

“She too is in danger?” I gasped. 

“Consider the timings”, Sherlock said. “Allowing for the duration of Miss Owen’s journey, her friend would now have just about finished her breakfast, and be partaking of a glass of wine to wash it down. The attacker would surely expect to know of the success or failure of their plan within the next hour or two.”

“But Mr. Montpensier is at work!” I pointed out.

“I did not say that it was the husband”, Sherlock said. 

+~+~+

The Montpensiers lived in a small but well-kept house in Tavistock Square, a little way south of Euston Railway Station. Our cab drew to a halt outside it, and Sherlock leapt out almost before it had come to a halt, bouncing up the stairs and rapping sharply on the door. I followed at a slightly more sedate pace, and we were admitted to a small waiting-room whilst a maid took our cards to the lady of the house. 

I have to say that Mabel Montpensier was not what I was expecting. She was not much older than Miss Owen, but much stouter, almost matronly. She clearly viewed us initially with suspicion, but when Sherlock explained the purpose of our visit, she smiled.

“Dear Emma”, she said fondly. “I am afraid that she does tend towards the dramatic at times. I fear that she was over-reacted to a number of silly pranks, one of which was played on poor Bill.”

“The spider in a magazine destined for your good self”, Sherlock reminded her. “And the gunshot?”

“That was just one of those children's toys with the caps”, she said scornfully. “The policeman found it later, and showed me. Besides, who would wish to harm me? I have nothing to my name except what I have through my marriage, although Jack has provided for me if the worst happens.”

Sherlock had that irritating look on his face which told me that a) something very important had just been said, and b) there was not a chance in Hell that I would ever be able to work out what. He nodded thoughtfully.

“Indeed”, he said. “In this case, I think that you are quite correct, Mrs. Montpensier. I shall of course re-assure Miss Owen that her fears are quite groundless.”

Our hostess smiled, and we bowed ourselves out.

+~+~+

“So”, I said as we were driven away. “No case after all.”

“Oh, there Is a case”, he said. “The unfortunate Madame Montpensier is indeed in some peril, despite what she says.”

“From whom?” I demanded. 

He smiled and shook his head.

“We are going to Miss Owen's laboratory”, he said. “I would like to know the results of her analysis of that decanter, though I am sure that I can guess them well enough. And there is something that I need to advise her of, as regards her own safety.”

I glared at him, but clearly he would tell me nothing. As he was now looking at the passing shops, I looked away and ventured a small pout.

“And stop pouting!” he said.

Honestly!

+~+~+

I was not surprised when we met Miss Owen to be told that the powder found in the decanter was a deadly poison, and that there had been sufficient quantities that one glass would almost certainly have killed the person who had drank it.

“It was sheer luck that Mabel was down later that day”, Miss Owen said, folding her laboratory coat away. “The poison was as a result left long enough that some precipitated to the top of the decanter, which was why I noticed it.”

“I rather fear that your surmise may have been correct”, Sherlock told her, “and that your friend is indeed in some danger. Though not of the immediate type. Miss Owen, I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course”, she said, wide-eyed.

“Send a telegram to your house saying that you have to work exceedingly late, and be sure not to return home until after nine o'clock.”

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I rather fear that something will happen this evening”, Sherlock said firmly, “and I do not wish to endanger your life as well. The doctor and I will be at hand to make sure things go well, so do not fear.”

“And Mabel?” she asked.

“Your friend's life is safe tonight”, Sherlock promised her.

I thought his phrasing odd, but as usual, it turned out there was a good reason that he chose those words.

+~+~+

It was just approaching a quarter past six. Sherlock and I were in the small park around which Tavistock Square was formed, watching the cream-coloured house gradually darken in the gathering gloom. A cab pulled up outside and a stout fellow with blond flyaway hair got out.

“The husband?” I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

“Mr. William Montpensier”, he said. “Doubtless scrounging another free dinner at his brother's expense.”

“I would wager that Mrs. Montpensier does not like that”, I observed. 

He said nothing, and we continued to wait. It was nearly dark half an hour later when a second cab drew up and disgorged another man, clearly younger than the first. The husband, presumably. He almost ran into the house, which I thought odd, and silence returned to our side of the square, broken only slightly by the busy traffic down Woburn Place on the other side of the park. It was surprisingly peaceful for the centre of London.....

Suddenly there was a gunshot from inside the house, and a loud scream. Sherlock immediately charged out from our hiding-place and was at the door in less than thirty seconds, leaving me some way behind. His frantic banging did not immediately summon a footman, but eventually one came and pulled the door back slightly to peer cautiously out at us both. The next moment he was sat on his backside, owing to Sherlock having forced the door open and run into the hall.

There was a small cluster of staff around one of the doors on the right, and Sherlock forced his way through them with me following. In the room were the three Montpensiers; the husband lay sprawled unconscious on the floor, whilst the brother was comforting his sister-in-law. Sherlock muttered something to one of the staff who fled with an impressive turn of pace for someone so elderly, before turning back to the three figures before him.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Mrs. Montpensier looked too stunned to say anything, but her brother-in-law more than made up for things with his own volubility. 

“Jack tried to shoot her!” he said, sounding incredulous at his own statement. “Came in and demanded to see us, and when Mabel and I asked what was wrong, and he accused her of.... of sleeping with another man!”

The woman let out a small moan.

“Calm yourself”, Sherlock said soothingly. “After all, everything makes sense now.”

“It does?” William Montpensier sounded dubious, to say the least. Sherlock nodded.

“Of course”, he said. “His suspicions, however unfounded, must have been aroused some weeks back, hence the run of practical jokes – the letter, the spider and the false gunshot - that seemed just that. However, this evening something snapped, and full-blooded murder was attempted.”

I opened my mouth to ask why he had not mentioned the attempted poisoning that morning, but caught his warning look and stopped in time. 

“I have summoned my good friend Sergeant Baldur”, Sherlock told Mrs. Montpensier, “and I am sure that he can deal with matters swiftly and discreetly.”

“That would be good”, she said faintly. Unfortunately she looked up just to see two of the footmen carrying her husband's unconscious body out of the room, and promptly fainted.

+~+~+

Sergeant Baldur arrived an impressive thirty minutes later, and Sherlock ushered him in to where William Montpensier was sat with his now mercifully conscious sister-in-law. Jack Montpensier had been extremely fortunate; the bullet had caught the edge of the cigarette-case he had had in his pocket and been deflected from its trajectory, otherwise he would surely have been dead, rather than facing a long stay in hospital.

“This has been a short but challenging case”, my friend said. “Sergeant, I think it would be a good start if you would arrest the attempted murderers.”

William Montpensier looked up sharply.

“Murderers?” he asked, “Plural?”

“Yes”, Sherlock said. “You. Both of you.”

It was true at that moment that you could have cut the silence in that room with a knife. As Sherlock had forewarned me, my hand tightened on the revolver in my pocket. I did not want to ruin another jacket by firing through it, but I would. William Montpensier laughed.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Your brother was quite right in his suspicions that his wife was seeing another man”, Sherlock said smoothly. “The only thing that he did not know was that the other man was in fact _you_ , sir. He came home and confronted you, but you shot him, with intent to kill. It was your misfortune both that his cigarette-case saved his life, and that he confronted you in a room with an open window. I am sure, when he comes round, he will confirm this sequence of events.”

“You are mad!” the man shouted.

“The practical jokes were your idea, to suggest that your brother was mentally unbalanced”, Sherlock continued mercilessly. “That one of them ended up targeting you made me immediately suspicious; that was something I would have expected the perpetrator of those acts to have done in order to try to draw attention away from themselves.”

The man had fallen silent. Mrs. Montpensier gulped.

“”Your plans misfired this morning”, Sherlock said. “As you had planned, Miss Owen discovered the poison in the decanter and duly had it tested. What you had not bargained for was her bringing us into the case, and when your partner in crime alerted you to our visit, you panicked. You sent your brother an anonymous note suggesting his wife's infidelity, which led to him confronting the pair of you. There, you attempted to kill him.”

“Lies!” William Montpensier hissed. “There is not a shred of proof.”

Sherlock smiled dangerously.

"Well", he said silkily, "when your attempted victim regains consciousness, we shall know all, will we not?

Mrs. Montpensier suddenly burst into life.

“You fool!” she snapped at her brother-in-law. “I told you that it would never work....”

He silenced her with a slap full across the face, and the next moment Sergeant Baldur hauled him from the room, two of his constables dragging his associate behind him. I stared in astonishment.

+~+~+

“Both had their motives”, Sherlock said as we walked back into our rooms in Baker Street. He wanted his brother's share of the family funds, she wanted him and the better lifestyle that would result from more money. The unfortunate Mr. Jack Montpensier was just in the way.”

I nodded and sat down on the couch, reaching for my notebook so I could write up the day's strange events.

The next moment I screamed like a girl. A huge black fake spider had bounced up out my notebook and onto the table as soon as I opened it. I glared furiously at Sherlock.

“April Fool?” he said teasingly.

I was going to kill him! That way, he could solve his own bloody murder!

+~+~+

In our next colourful adventure, a discovery from centuries past leads to a Gothic house of horror, and bodies everywhere.


End file.
